The Garden of Love: Heaven-on-Earth in Baroque Art

Charles Scribner III
In the last decade of his life Rubens painted one of his noblest, and most personal, celebrations of life and love: the Garden of Love (fig. 1) which hangs today in the Prado, Madrid, the brightest star in that celebrated galaxy of Rubens paintings. It is one of those rare masterpieces that may be fully appreciated on its own terms, a work that truly speaks for itself. Unlike Rubens’s altarpieces, historical epics, or classical mythologies it requires no learned interpretation. Just as in Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro we need not understand the Italian libretto in order to experience the emotions translated into the language of music, so it is in Rubens’s sublime painting. These figural variations on a theme—the theme being the cultivation of love—are played out in harmony with the idyllic landscape, the architectural cadences, the sculptural counterpoints, and even the hovering putti, those airborne cherubs and cupids, the painter’s version of so many grace notes and flourishes. And yet, probably no single painting by Rubens has evoked so many conflicting scholarly explanations: I am reminded of Shakespeare’s sonnets and the shelves of scholarship—and sometimes fantasy—they have inspired. We seem to be on much firmer ground in Rubens’s religious and mythological scenes. Poetic fantasias about love, on the other hand, tend to invite a scholars’ free-forall. W hat is this painting really about? Whom is it about? The range of interpretations so far has run from the autobiographical to the arcane, from slice-of-life genre painting to the most complex allegory.1 To some the picture simply illustrates a garden party around Rubens and his recent bride, Helena Fourment, complete with sisters-in-law and brothers-in-law.2 To another it represents an intricate neo-platonic allegory of love personified by the three seated ladies—sensual, celestial, and earthly love: a cinematic progression, so to speak, through love’s initiation, maturation, and culm ination in matrimony.3 Is the figure at the left really the elderly Rubens rejuvenated by love with his wife Helena, as one scholar has suggested?4 Or is Helena to be found seated in the middle—or standing at the right?5 Do the three seated ladies, all notably without escorts, represent three allegorical stages of love; or perhaps the Three Graces, fleshly counterparts to their statue in the grotto above and behind them? Or are they personifications of sight, hearing, and touch?6



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Sifting through the reams of scholarship on the subject, I felt I had stumbled on the ultimate multiple-choice, college board question: A,B,C, all of the above, none of the above? One recent interpretation is based on the painting’s earliest recorded Flemish title, Conversatie a la Mode (a social gathering, in vogue), as a work extolling social gallantry, fashion, and aristocratic courtship mirrored in the English cavalier poetry and French "how to” manuals of the day.7 Our present, brief survey here will not permit excursions through such Baroque mazes. Instead, we must return to the evidence w ithin the painting itself, as seen against the background of the artist’s life and works and the broader artistic landscape in which this Garden of Love was planted. First of all, Rubens painted his Garden of Love sometime w ithin two or three years immediately following his marriage to Helena Fourment in 1630: she was a girl of sixteen, he a widower of fifty-three. Describing his reasons for the marriage, four years later in a letter to his friend and correspondent Nicolas-Claude Fabri de Peiresc, Rubens wrote: “I made up my mind to marry again, since I was not yet inclined to live the abstinent life of the celibate, thinking that if we must give the first place to continence, we may enjoy licit pleasures with thankfulness. I have taken a young wife of honest but middle-class family, although everyone tried to persuade me to make a Court marriage. But I feared pride, that inherent vice of the nobility, particularly in that sex, and that is why I chose one who would not blush to see me take my brushes in hand.”8 It was a blissful and fruitful marriage, to say the least: their fifth child was born eight months after Rubens’s death in 1640. During this twilight decade Rubens painted a number of portraits of Helena, such as the famous Het Pelsken (“The Fur”) in Vienna, where she is portrayed as the classical Venus Pudica —"in the flesh,” so to speak. Among the family portraits, his Walk in the Garden (Alte Pinakothek, Munich, fig. 2) describes a garden of love, but here an actual and thoroughly domesticated one, the artist’s own. Rubens walks arm-in-arm with Helena toward the sculpture pavilion, his son Nicolaas a few steps behind. In the background stands a cupid-and-dolphin fountain (symbolizing love’s swiftness); in the foreground, the dog and peacocks (emblems of fidelity and marriage) underscore the theme of conjugal harmony. The Munich panel foreshadows Rubens’s late selfportrait with Helena and their youngest son, Peter Paul, also set in a garden, now preserved in the M etropolitan Museum, New York.9 So much for the happy home front, the spirit of which clearly permeates its imaginary, allegorized reflection in the Prado—“imaginary” because Rubens’s Garden of Love is surely not lifted from the artist’s family album. Rather it derives from a formal tradition of love gardens which he infused with personal feeling and significance. During the 1630s, Rubens retired from his active diplomatic career and devoted more time than ever to painting for his own personal pleasure—landscapes, portraits, genre subjects. In his famous Kermesse in the Louvre, Rubens offered his version of a Pieter Bruegel, of the Flemish pictorial tradition of peasants at play. At the other end of the scale, but clearly related in its accelerating rhythms, is his Feast of Venus (Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna), a full-bodied, Baroque revival of

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a classical Bacchanal. Somewhere in between we find the Dance of Peasants (Italian peasants this time) in the Prado and Couples Playing Near a Castle (Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, fig. 3), recalling Rubens’s purchase in 1635 of the Castle of Steen, his beloved country retreat where he spent his final years as Lord of Steen. The couples are now Flemish, well-to-do, haul bourgeois, and somew'hat tempered, but hardly restrained, in their amorous pursuits. We begin to approach the Garden. The tradition of love gardens goes back to medieval art where it was often associated with matrimony, as we find in the illuminated month of April in the Tr'es Riches Heures du Due de Berry by the Lim bourg Brothers, illustrating a betrothal in a castle garden (fig. 4). Sometimes the theme was treated satirically, as in the anonymous Flemish Geuchmatt (“Fool’s Meadow,” fig. 5), where erstwhile fickle men have their wings clipped and their ankles ensnared, their spouses holding them on very short leashes. (Perhaps, I am tempted to suggest, it was painted to adorn a wedding chest.) The recently auctioned Flemish Love Garden of around 1600, attributed to Louis de Caullery (fig. 6), may be seen as a more immediate precedent for Rubens’s treatment with corresponding musician, walled garden, couples strolling and dallying, a dog (faithfulness), peacocks (sacred to Juno, symbolizing marriage), but notably without any mythological sculpture or invasive putti. This is a simple, conventional Conversatie a la Mode. What transforms Rubens’s version into something more resonant, into a metaphorical Garden of Love, are the sculptural additions, like so many iconographic footnotes, and the flying putti bearing emblems of love. Rubens’s invented sculpture always conveys a specific meaning: here it is the goddess Venus presiding over her realm. She is literally expressive, her breasts functioning as fountains, recalling Rubens’s fertile fountain of “Mother E anh”(Gaia), the mother of Erichthonius, from the earlier Discovery of Erichthonius in the Liechtenstein Collection. We are reminded that Venus—like Rubens’s Venus/Helena of Het Pelsken —is also a mother: she is the mother of Cupid, the god of love, who prompts the couple entering at the left. (Cupid’s paternity is doubtful: Mars, Jupiter and Mercury have variously been given the honor; some ancient Greek writers thought his father was Chaos— “like father, like son.”) In the pavilion, hidden water jets surprise the cavorting couples. A popular sixteenth-century Italian garden amusement, it is more clearly visible in the woodcut by Christoffel Jegher, based on Rubens’s drawing in the M etropolitan Museum (fig. 7).10 The rusticated fagade derives from Rubens’s own architectural contributions to his Antwerp house and garden. A true Renaissance man, Rubens practised architecture as well as invented sculpture. W ithin the pavilion a sculpture of the Three Graces denotes the prevailing civility of this highly cultured garden. But, above all, the flying cupids provide the key to the nature of the love here celebrated: the flaming torch, the turtle doves, the floral crown, and finally the yoke are all marriage symbols.11 This is not “free love,” but conjugal love being fostered by Venus and her minions. (The yoke refers to the Latin coniungere, “to yoke together,” from which we get the word conjugal—as well as that sobering image, the yoke of wedlock.) In this way the picture celebrates Rubens’s own recent marriage, here reflected by analogy and allegory rather than specified by anecdotal

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Fig. 4 The Limbourg Brothers, April, illumination from the Ties Riches Heures du Due de Berry (Musee Conde, Chantilly).

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Fig. 6 Attributed to Louis de Caullery, Love Garden (Auction: Sotheby’s, New York,


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portraiture. Rubens has thoroughly transformed the pictorial tradition of the Garden of Love, recasting it in his H igh Baroque style, infusing it with psychological depth, and raising it to a new poetic plane. Among seventeenth-century love gardens it stands apart, unrivaled in its appeal. For its true artistic descendents, we must look to the next century, to the fetes galantes of Antoine W atteau.12 A Fleming by birth (from Valenciennes, formerly part of Flanders), Watteau appeared in Paris just as the long drawn-out battle in the French Academy between the Poussinistes and Rubenistes—the classicizing defenders of line versus the Baroque proponents of color—was turning in Rubens’s favor. One of W atteau’s early masters, the decorative painter Claude Audran, was also the curator (“concierge”) of the Luxembourg Palace; he had the key to the gallery of Rubens’s celebrated Medici cycle, and the hours W atteau spent studying and sketching these monumental Flemish Baroque canvases were ultimately to transform the future of French Rococo painting. W atteau’s translation of his Flemish heritage into a Parisian idiom is typified by his drawing of a dancing peasant couple from Rubens’s Kermesse and their transference to a far more rarefied setting in W atteau’s La Surprise.18 The banded columns of W atteau’s Music Party (Wallace Collection, London) have their architectural roots in Rubens’s Garden of Love. But his true debt to Rubens is far less specific and far more pervasive. W atteau’s fetes galantes (virtually untranslatable: something between “gallant festivals” and “merry parties”), a new genre and category devised especially for him by the French Academy, owe to Rubens’s Garden of Love not only their subject matter and Rubeniste stylistic values, but also the repeated inclusion of invented statues of Venus to sound, as it were, the appropriate keynotes. Their pitch and tone are distinctly mellower than in Rubens. Watteau strikes a melancholy note w ithin the gaiety. His lovers are tentative where Rubens’s were exuberant. His sculptured Venus is usually languid as in Fetes Venitiennes (National Gallery of Scotland, Edinburgh), sometimes even asleep, where Rubens’s was demonstrative and assertive. In his Champs Elys'ees (Wallace Collection, London fig. 8) Watteau translates into stone his flesh-and-blood sleeping Antiope, painted five years earlier (Jupiter and Antiope, Louvre, Paris), which in turn is a quotation from a Hellenistic bronze of a sleeping cupid (Metropolitan Museum, New York)— an artistic metamorphosis from sculpture, through flesh, back to sculpture.14 W atteau’s statues seem in fact to hover on the boundary of stone and flesh, of art and life, of what is real and what is imagined, like the statue of Hermione stepping down from her pedestal at the end of Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale. So, too, W atteau’s lovers seem at times to hover between theatre and life, between the play and—to quote the Broadway title—“The Real T hing.” In his Mezzetin (Metropolitan Museum, New York, fig. 9), for example, Watteau presents an actor from the Commedia dell’ arte plaintively serenading his inamorata. We can almost hear Don Giovanni’s “Deh, vieni alia finestra” (“come to the window”). She— off stage, off canvas—remains unseen, but her response may be inferred in the cold shoulder of the female statue turning its back on poor Mezzetin: despite his good voice, this stock character was ever hapless in love. There is a melancholy strain that runs throughout the lightness and gaiety


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Fig. 9 Antoine Watteau, Le Mezzetin (Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York).

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of W atteau’s fetes galantes like the poignant counterthemes woven through some of Mozart’s brightest movements: a sense of the ephemeral, of the transitory nature of these visions of love and happiness. The yearning for permanence within the Garden of Love is tempered by the realisation that, like W atteau’s perfectly poised dancer in L ’Indifferent (Louvre, Paris),the magical equilibrium is but momentary. Mozart evokes it in music; T.S. Eliot, in our own century, in one of his Four Quartets: At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless; Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is, But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity, Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards, Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.”15 This theme is fully played out in W atteau’s consummate Garden of Love— we m ight say his Sacred Grove of Love—the so-called Pilgrimage to Cythera (Louvre, Paris, fig. 10), the official painting submitted for his admission into the French Academy in 1717. I say “so-called” because, despite some recent muddying of the scholarly waters, it is now generally accepted that Watteau chose to depict the lovers about to depart from Cythera, Venus’s sacred island, the ultimate goal of these amorous pilgrims, complete with festive pilgrim s’ staffs.16 The statue of Venus, an antique “term” m arking the boundary of her realm, has been adorned with roses; at its base hang a bow and quiver full of arrows, the weapons of love. Golden rays of twilight suffuse the background as the lovers, their quest fulfilled, proceed to reboard the vessel to return home to the mainland. W atteau’s unusual choice of subject—specifically, his poignant sense of tim ing— is underscored by comparison with his earlier, overtly theatrical version of L ’lsle de Cyth'ere in Frankfurt (1709)—representing an outdoor performance of a play— and by a contemporary print by Claude Duflos (c. 1708). Both leave no doubt that in his Academy piece Watteau chose to depict the departure, not the setting out. The couples are clearly already on Cythera, not in some mythological Battery Park waiting for the ferry 1 A popular novel at the time was entitled The Return from the Isle of Love; the theme was clearly in the air. Lest there be any doubt, W atteau’s second version, in Berlin (Charlottenburg Castle, c. 1717-1719, fig. 11), introduces several telling details: the foreground couple already fulfilled in love; the gathering of flowers (“to flirt” derives from the Old French fleureter, “to talk flowers”); the cupid about to shoot a lover with an arrow reversed, feathers first, to cancel love;17 and the animated statue of Venus. Significantly she is here shown w ithholding the quiver from cupid: the time for love, we are to understand, is past. At the base of the statue lie trophies of military armor and the arts (music, literature) as offerings having been placed before the goddess of love: Omnia vincit Amor. Rubens’s Garden of Love expresses a gathering crescendo; W atteau’s, a graceful diminuendo. Rubens’s lovers approach conjugal fulfillment; W atteau’s already begin to withdraw from transitory bliss. Rubens spent the last decade of his long productive career rejuvenated by marriage. Watteau remained a bachelor, always something

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of an outsider despite his fame, his promising career cut tragically short by tuberculosis. Yet almost singlehandedly he created a new, typically French Rococo tradition of the love garden. Tended by W atteau’s followers Jean-Baptiste Pater and Nicolas Lancret, it achieved its final flowering in the art of Jean-Honore Fragonard. (I pass over Fragonard’s master Francois Boucher on thematic, not art-historical, grounds: with Boucher the garden was for one thing only, and to label it love, well....) Now Fragonard admittedly was not the first to introduce the "swinging lady” into love’s gardens—she already made a cameo appearance in W atteau’s The Shepherds (Charlottenburg Castle, Berlin)—but Fragonard, without doubt, swept her to unprecedented heights.18 In what is surely the world’s most famous Swing (Wallace Collection, London, 1767, fig. 12) she is propelled higher and higher by, some say, a bishop; others, her unsuspecting husband or elderly suitor, until her secret lover gains the optim um view of her legs—and perhaps more. He lies sprawled appropriately in a bed of roses (an obvious visual pun) as she flings off her shoe, a popular eighteenth-century motif symbolising the casting off of virtue. The sculpture of Cupid by Falconet admonishes silence while, in the background, two putti riding a dolphin symbolise the swift surge of love’s pleasures. These sculptural glosses clearly maintain their iconographic function as established by Rubens and followed by Watteau. For Fragonard, as well, they play far more than a merely decorative role, as we shall see in his consummate masterpiece at the Frick Collection in New York, The Progress of Love. A garden of love in four acts, so to speak, the series was commissioned by King Louis XV’s last mistress, Madame du Barry (who ultimately lost her head on the guillotine for royal love) for her country pavilion at Louveciennes. Fragonard painted the four large canvases between 1771 and 1773: they represent his most im portant commission and grandiose cycle of paintings. But already at their completion they had outlived their times. Neo-classicism a la grecque was already on the horizon. The more austere style of Joseph-Marie Vien was coming into vogue and would, quite literally, displace Fragonard. After a mere few weeks on view, Fragonard’s masterpieces were returned to the artist, who eventually took them back home to Grasse.19 (The over-abundance of fragrant flowers in these scenes—especially roses—reminds us that Fragonard came from the heart of France’s perfume industry.) There, installed in his cousin’s house, the series was supplemented by ten additional canvases. The paintings crossed the Atlantic in 1915 and eventually settled at the Frick, where they have been recently cleaned and together create the most perfect French eighteenth-century room—and "garden”—in the New World. We shall here confine ourselves to the original four narrative scenes. Their sequential order has been the subject of much scholarly debate: in addition to the three different sequences heretofore proposed, one critic reads them as two complementary pairs, another as having no intended narrative sequence at all. I am inclined to follow Donald Posner’s suggested order because it corresponds to the documented installation of the paintings in Grasse and to the sequence of Vien’s neo-classical series which replaced Fragonard’s at Louveciennes—and, above all, because it tells a good story and rings true.20 Still, I recognize that the pursuit

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Fig. 11 Antoine Watteau, The Departure from Cythera (Charlottenburg Castle, Berlin).

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of love, almost by definition, admits alternative approaches! It has been claimed (in the Frick’s own catalogue) that Fragonard’s prom inent statues have only the most generalized anecdotal connection with his foreground subject.21 This I cannot accept. In my view, they provide precise and equally witty iconographic commentaries on the meaning of each scene, symbolic touchstones of love’s progress. In the opening Surprise (fig. 13) the aspiring lover has scaled the wall of the garden of love, startling the unprepared and visibly alarmed young lady who has been reading a letter—we may guess whose: its seal, like the gentlem an’s jacket, is red. Between and above them, we find the now-familiar statue of Venus w ithholding the quiver from Cupid. We may recall the same statue in W atteau’s second Departure from Cythera and, with closer application to the present scene, in his Garden Party in Dresden: the time for love’s fulfillment, it reveals, has not yet come. The green pitcher on the ground is as yet unbroken, an emblematic footnote to our heroine’s virtue which likewise remains intact. And so we proceed to The Pursuit (fig. 14), where the tempo, allegro con brio, is marked by the sculpture of cupids riding a dolphin, recalling those in Fragonard’s Swing and the familiar fountain motif in Rubens’s mythologies. The maiden’s precarious footing, as she flees, suggests an im m inent fall—in love, “tomber amoureux.” The next scene (fig. 15) used to be called Love Letters but, based on Sauerlander’s correct identification of the allegorical statue of Amicitia, is better titled Love and Friendship. The pair are now shown reading together—at least she’s reading— with the dog of faithfulness at their feet. The love letters bear the familiar red seal. The merging cloudlike foliage above seems to embrace, m irroring the figures below. It has been proposed that this subject should come last, illustrating Madame de Pom padour’s motto that “love passes but friendship endures.”22 A touching thought. But it is hard to reconcile such sentiments with either Fragonard or the new royal mistress, Madame du Barry, who unlike her predecessor, the aging La Pompadour, had no physical infirmity requiring her to fall back on such a consoling philosophy. Finally in The Lover Crowned (fig. 16), the traditional symbols of the love garden (music, garlands, floral crown) appear as well as the artist himself sketching this happy conclusion. Once again, the soft foliage and counterpointed, calligraphic branch reflect the lovers below. And what of little Cupid? He is now asleep: his job done, he has earned his nap. If nature plays a supporting dramatic role in this cycle, in the late Fragonard fetes it truly dominates. The figures recede in importance, enveloped by the sensuous and overblown foliage foreshadowing the landscape fantasies of Hubert Robert and early Romanticism—for example, in Fragonard’s Swing in W ashington or Fete at Rambouillet (Gulbenkian Foundation, Oeiras, fig. 17): a Watteau m inuet has, in effect, been re-orchestrated as a symphony. The trees themselves now seem to embody the pent-up forces of nature, like gathering thunderstorm clouds about to break at any moment. Fragonard outlived the Rococo. He personally survived the French Revolution, but his style did not. For the finale of the Garden of Love we must look to another

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Fig. 13 Jean-Honore Fragonard, The Surprise (The Frick Collection, New York).


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Fig. 14 Jean-Honore Fragonard, The Pursuit (The Frick Collection, New York).


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Fig. 16 Jean-Honore Fragonard, The Lover Crowned (The Frick Collection, New York).

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medium, to the last act of Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro: if only Fragonard had designed the backdropsl (Jean-Pierre Ponnelle’s new sets at the M etropolitan Opera suggest, by contrast, a “petrified garden” and seem to derive from Piranesi engravings, overshadowed as they are by gray crum bling architecture). Someone at London Records, at least, has sensed the natural affinity with Fragonard, choosing the artist’s bi-level capriccio in his Gardens of the Villa d’Este at Tivoli (fig. 18, Wallace Collection, London) to illustrate this opera about “upstairs/dow nstairs” in the Garden of Love. In Mozart’s fourth and final act, the garden becomes the scene of amorous pursuits, disguised rendezvous, intrigues, infidelities and entrapment. Then, through the perfect fusion of Mozart’s music and Da Ponte’s libretto, it is transformed into a place of grace and redemption, as the Countess suddenly reveals her true identity

Fig. 18 Jean-Honore Fragonard, Gardens of the Villa d’Este at Tivoli (Wallace Collection, London), as backdrop to Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro (London Records). to the wayward Count, who has just finished accusing her of unfaithfulness. Caught in his infidelity and now thoroughly chagrined, he begs for her pardon. "I am kinder and say yes” (“ Piu docile io sono, e dico di si”) replies the forgiving Countess in the most heavenly absolution ever pronounced through music.

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It has been said that the ultim ate goal of art is to reconcile us to life. If so, then nowhere is that reconciliation more inviting or more assured than in these ever-refreshing Gardens of Love by Rubens, Watteau and Fragonard. In these worldly, secular, and overtly sensual settings, we are offered glimpses—as in the novels of Andrew Greeley—into Eden redeemed, heaven-on-earth, where divine and erotic love, Agape and Eros, are revealed to be but two reflections of the same Face.

'For a review of previous interpretations, see J.S. Held, Rubens Selected Drawings (New York, 1986) 151. See also, E. Goodman, “ Rubens’s Conversatie a la Mode: Garden of Leisure, Fashion, and Gallantry,” Art Bulletin, LXIV (1982) 247-248. 2G. Gluck, “Rubens Liebesgarten,” Jahrbuch der Kunsthistorischen Sammlungen in Wien, XXXV, (1920-21): 7-98. 3A. Glang-Suberkn'ib, “Der Liebesgarten: eine Untersuchung iiber die Bedeutung der Konfiguration fur das Bildthema im Spatwerk des Peter Paul Rubens (Bern, 1975), 13-35. 4Leo Steinberg, in public lecture at Columbia University, November 1977. 5J.S. Held, The Oil Sketches of Peter Paul Rubens, (Princeton, 1980) 400-401. 6H.G. Evers, Peter Paul Rubens, (Munich, 1942) 339-348. 7Goodman 247 ff. “Letter to Nicolas-Claude Fabri de Peiresc, dated 18 December 1634; see R.S. Magurn (ed.), The Letters of Peter Paul Rubens (Cambridge, 1955), 393. 9See W. Liedtke, Flemish Painting in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, (New York, 1984) 176-187. Cf. my review in Burlington Magazine (July 1986) 515-516. 10J.S. Held, Rubens Selected Drawings (New York, 1986) 151. 11Held 151. 12See O. Banks, Watteau and the North: Studies in the Dutch and Flemish Influences on French Rococo Painting (New York, 1977). 13D. Posner, Antoine Watteau (Ithaca, 1984), 69. 14Posner, 79-80. 15From T.S. Eliot, “Burnt Norton,” stanza II, lines 16-22. 16M. Levey, “The Real Theme of Watteau’s Embarkation for Cythera,” Burlington Magazine, CIII (1961): 180-185. Cf. D. Posner’s recent—and unconvincing—revision of Levey’s thesis, in Watteau, 188-195. i7This detail is crucial to Levey’s interpretation: M. Levey, 185. 18See D. Posner, “The Swinging Women of Watteau and Fragonard,” Art Bulletin, LXIV (1982): 75ff. 19The Frick Collection, an Illustrated Catalogue, II, New York, 1968, New York 114. 20D. Posner, "The True Path of Fragonard’s ‘Progress of Love’,” Burlington Magazine, CXIV (1972): 528 ff. Cf. sequences proposed by F. Biebel, “Fragonard and Madame du Barry,” Gazette des beaux-arts, LVI (1960): 207 ff; and W. Sauerlander, “Uber die Urspriingliche Reihenfolge von Fragonards ‘Amours des Bergers’,” Munchner Jahrbuch der Bildenden Kunst, XIX (1968) 127 ff. 21The Frick Collection 114. 22W. Sauerlander 143 ff. Cf. D. Posner, “True Path,” 529.